


One Day I'd Like to Meet Your Mouth

by castoffstarter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood, Face-Fucking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castoffstarter/pseuds/castoffstarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry atones for his sins. He finds Louis, again and again. (A fallen host AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day I'd Like to Meet Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the warnings. thanks to Wade for being my hype person and for setting this whole shindig up. there's a line in here from a short story I love by Kelly Link. if you spot it you're my kind of pal.
> 
> oh look, another fic finished with a fever.

__________

 

The dreams come first. 

In flashes of extreme heat and cold, like a constantly changing pressure system in his bones, low, inhuman groaning begins in a darkness so black Louis' sleeping mind prickles with the sharp fear of absence. In the blackness something slithers and moves, but Louis can only feel its presence, no concept of depth past his own shaking body. He can't remember if he's standing or sitting, can't remember how long he's been in this space, an occluded system in his veins, when something soft hooks around his ankle, jerking him forward. His knee bangs against something else unforgiving, hard as steel, and when he opens his mouth to curse the blackness seeps in, clogging his throat and filling up his lungs. He can feel it crawling behind his eye sockets, darkening the whites of his eyes, and when he tries to scream he hears a low gasp of what sounds like recognition before the groaning turns into screams so shrill and tinny Louis thinks his eardrums have popped. He feels hunger in his stomach, so acute and fast he's nauseous with it, his teeth needle points that bite through his bottom lip, and by the time he tastes his own blood on his tongue he passes out.

He wakes up exhausted, eyes wet, and he allows himself a small, sad smile before beginning his morning reflection. 

 

__________

 

The body comes later.

It's after lauds with Father Muir when the basement begins to feel damp, cooler than usual for June. He doesn't have to turn around from where he is folding robes to know what he will see. He does anyway. 

The body stands at the open door to the Sacristy, long limbs hard and unmoving, like he's standing in for the door itself, his broad shoulders a rigid slope spread out from his long neck. He looks like the lead in a Greek tragedy, Achilles, or Cassandra, the leftovers of Louis' Classics degree, like he has just set his favorite city on fire and left the soot under his fingernails as a souvenir. Louis thought it the first time, even before he knew the truth. He's pictured it every time since. 

The body is pale and dirty and slightly lumpy, streaked with the juice of broken fruit and what looks like red silt from the clay beds out near the bay. He must have stumbled through the mulberry bushes lining the brackish waterline. He wears no clothes, his feet filthy, covered in a mixture of blood and mud, bits of broken glass and whatever debris had been in his path. There is, _ironically_ , Louis thinks, no trail of blood behind him. 

"I killed it," the body says. He sounds angry, his voice flint, deep. "Not you." He makes no move to cross the threshold but Louis can feel the heat of his mouth from this far away. Louis isn't sure what he means, if the thing that tried to crawl into him in his dream was real or not. He still doesn't know which dreams are, if any. When he frowns and looks up to meet that piercing gaze, it looks like the city is still on fire. The city is still burning, and the body is watching it burn. 

Louis wants to say _take me with you_ , or _stay with me, stay here_ but what comes out is, "If you need someone to bite, you can bite me."

The fury dies then, as quick as it came. The body looks down at the marble floor as if in apology, shoulders slumping and feet turning in. When he looks back up he almost looks human.

"What do I call you today?" Louis asks softly, anything to stop him from staring like he does.

It makes the body laugh, his matted curls thrown back with the bark of it, and smile wide, craters appearing in each cheek. 

"Today you may call me Harry," he says, rolling his tongue around the sound of the name. 

"Hello, Harry," Louis smiles at him. Harry is a good name, a new one, and Louis likes the way it feels on his tongue, not the heavy iron of his true name. Harry hardens, then, sharpening around the edges like Louis has put on his reading glasses. Louis knows that means he could walk forward and touch him now, but he stays where he is. There are strange ink lines that run across Harry's skin; a new whorl like a fingerprint for each incarnation. Louis won't allow himself to press his thumbs into their darkness, afraid the pads of his fingers will come away wet with blood or ink or worse, he'll leave new marks behind, his own fingerprints like eternal bruises. 

He turns back and continues folding robes, the cloths for the tabernacle, touching any linen to ground himself. He can feel the way that Harry shivers when he says his given name, but he remains focused on his task. There are a few variations on how they will proceed. Louis likes to pretend they have more control over these meetings than they do, and Harry lets him. 

Besides, Harry is early, and Louis' teeth still feel too sharp.

 

__________

 

Louis doesn't believe in chance. He spent his days in seminary learning proofs that chance can't work in an ineffable universe. He spent his days on his knees and his nights on his knees and he can't remember being called anymore but he does remember the first time Harry fell in front of the crucifix, how he looked like he'd been falling for a millennia. 

Louis can still hear the crack of bone hitting the marble floor, the sobs ripped from Harry's throat, his voice deep and raw and harsh, like he was speaking in tongues. For all Louis knew he was, but his begging was so human it was clear in any language. When he crawled over to Louis he used a cracked English, like an old recording, speaking in Psalms Louis had uttered only a few hours earlier during vespers -- _God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me_ * -- clawing dirty fingernails into Louis' plain slacks and digging his hands, burning cold, nails like claws, into any skin he could find. 

It was a peculiar kind of fascinated horror that overlay that first time, that first body, fresh from the ground but older than the earth itself. Louis felt like a visitor in his own body, being forced to watch his worst fears realized upon the grieving angel that couldn't find its peace. He was called Raziel then, but he couldn't find the word in English so he scratched it into Louis's belly in bloody Aramaic. The dirt helped with the later infection but not the scars that formed. 

Louis waited to cry until he left, watched him drag his newly clean feet over the threshold and pause, looking back. Louis watched the moment unfold, how he tried to smile and grimaced instead, saw the softness of his gaze turn sad, like he was remembering Lot's wife. 

Louis never ventured farther than the sanctuary of the rectory after that. His life is spent cloistered now, like the Augustinian nuns he met on his first tour of the diocese. It's easier this way, he tells himself. He doesn't know what he'd do if met with the body out among the public. 

 

__________

 

Without turning around he knows he's alone again, given a small peace in which to prepare himself for the Holy Mass. He takes the rosary around his neck into his left hand and clutches it hard enough to break the skin of his palm. His daily orders have already been observed, so he prepares the veil, filling the Chalice with wine and the Paten with the Host, first purifying his hands. His vestments come next. The Amice followed by holy Alb; he only stumbles once in his recitations when donning the Cincture -- _Gird me, O Lord, with the girdle of purity and extinguish in my loins the desires of lust so that the virtue of continence and chastity may ever abide within me_ \-- his blush a roll of shame in his gut. Louis believes in the holiness of what he does, believes that the path God has chosen for him holds an eternity of meaning that he is not meant to fully understand, but no matter how many times he atones for the sins of the angel, he still feels too human under God's eye. 

Once the Chasuble is lain heavy upon his shoulders and the Birettum on his head, Louis situates the small rolling cart from the corner over into the doorway. He will not be flanked by acolytes today. He prepares a bowl of warm water and adds chism to it, placing the purificator alongside it. The Burse containing the Corporal rests to the right, and he holds the veiled Chalice in his left hand. 

The walk from the Sacristy to the altar is slow. Louis hears nothing but his own breathing. 

Louis walks in adoration of the crucifix, his gaze steady even if his hand holding the Chalice is shaking. Harry is standing in the first pew, head bowed. He looks up when Louis kneels in genuflection, and Louis can feel his gaze but he continues his prayer. He quietly goes through the holy traditions, prepares the Missal and kneels before the altar to ask forgiveness -- _Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault_ \-- before intoning the Introit.

When he finally turns to greet the congregation he raises his arms and allows himself to look at Harry. He's no longer in his pew, instead sitting cross-legged at the foot of the altar with his hands resting in his bloody knees, head cocked as he watches Louis' body. He usually waits for the gospel to move, closer to Louis, closer to the crucifix hanging omnipresent behind the altar. He looks most human in those moments, scooting his naked body awkwardly, limbs askew in his eagerness to hear the stories Louis tells. Perhaps he should omit the _Gloria_ , treat their time together as a mass of the dead, but Louis isn't just praying for mercy on behalf of the broken body beneath him, and he needs to say the words even if he can't quite hide the anguish in his own voice. _Lord, have mercy on us! Christ, have mercy on us! Lord have mercy on us!_ Louis knows that Harry likes the ceremony of Holy Mass as much as he does, that they both need the repetition, thrive on it even, because at Holy Mass the priest is another Christ. 

He knows Harry is going to speak before he's even lowered his arms.

"Tell me, Father, what do you know of intention in human action? Is the deed still an act of good if there lies an undercurrent of selfishness?" It is not unlike Harry to wonder at the motivations of humans. The vessel of his body is an endless mystery to him, and although he sees other humans whenever he awakens -- he's told Louis all about them, how very similar they are to their ancestors with their puckered skin and shiny hair and crooked teeth -- he's only ever touched Louis.

Harry's head is still tilted slightly to one side and he smiles like he can feel the sharp stab of guilt in Louis' belly. Maybe he can, Louis doesn't dare ask. He is careful to answer. 

"It's often simpler to assume that what we do in good faith is freedom from bad intent." 

Harry's face twists and turns mean, angry, just for a brief moment, before it settles back into a mask of polite interest. 

"And what do _you_ assume, Louis?" It is an incalculable weight he gives Louis to bear.

Louis blushes, caught between the honesty of his own shame and the expectation in Harry's gaze. "Selfishness masked as kindness is the burden of all sinners."

Harry doesn't reply right away. He stares at Louis, the embroidery of his robes, the small sliver of skin at his ankles and wrists, the flush down his neck. When he finally speaks he looks anywhere but at Louis, lumbering to his feet with a sigh.

"I've no patience for your gospel today. You may prepare the adoration." He returns to the pew but remains standing, hands folded in devotion, shoulders a pointed curve towards the crucifix. Louis watches him, his heart heavier than a moment ago, and forces himself to turn and begin the canon. 

 

__________

 

There is a moment when Louis is commemorating the living and the dead -- he calls upon St. Sebastian by name -- that the sky outside cracks with thunder. Harry is calling for him, unwilling to speak yet demanding his attention, but Louis will not break the consecration. He places his hands over the Chalice and Host, takes the bread into his hands as Christ did, and raises his eyes heavenward. He speaks quietly, his voice barely a whisper, knowing his meekness will infuriate Harry more. He kneels and rings the bell three times, chasing cracks of lightning from outside. It is an otherwise sunny day. He consecrates the blood, keeping his pointer finger and thumb together, relieved at the muscle memory, and welcomes Christ into the church. When he kneels to kiss the altar, he feels the warmth of tears slipping down his cheeks. The minor elevation is a mixture of rough syllables, but Louis makes it through the prayer, gagging on the _Amen_ , feeling the hand of God upon his shoulder. 

He takes communion, repeating the _Agnes Dei_ in his head, his lips barely forming the words, and briefly prays the presence of The Lord to give him strength. He purifies his hands of the Host and wipes the Chalice with the purificator, watches as the white linen comes away deep red. He is never quite ready for what comes next.

When he turns with a single Host and Chalice in hand, Harry is already waiting at the foot of the altar. He looks blurry again, larger than the body can hold, like he's hiding his wings with difficulty. He's the most terrifying thing Louis has ever seen. 

Before he's spoken the words, Harry's mouth falls open. "The body of Christ," Louis intones, glad of the steadiness of his voice. 

Harry looks directly at him as the Eucharist touches his tongue, the wet heat of his mouth moistening Louis' finger. "Amen." 

Louis brings the Chalice up to his lips before he can look away to the crucifix. "The precious blood of Christ," he says, tilting the blood onto Harry's waiting tongue. It's only a few drops, but it's enough for Louis to lower the Chalice and smell iron.

"Remember, Lord, your creature, whom you have redeemed with your blood."** Harry answers, and for the first time he does not step away to gaze at the hanging crucifix. He closes his mouth, licking his cracked lips and staining them, and stares at Louis until he puts the Chalice back on the altar. 

"Do you want to see what it's like to fall, Father?" Harry asks. Louis can see the Eucharist on his tongue, a thin white wafer against dark red. 

He doesn't wait for a response, takes the red embroidered Chasuble between his fingers and tugs. Louis startles, does not remember choosing the red vestment. For Harry he usually wears violet. The first time he wore it Harry had asked what the different colors meant, and he smiled when Louis told him purple was for penance. 

"The red is for love," Louis says. It's not an answer to the question Harry asked, but it is a response to something. 

Harry's fingers rub at the stitching reverently, and when he lifts his arms to remove it, he presses a kiss over the heart of it. He folds it as neatly as he's seen Louis do, and places it on the step next to them. Louis helps him by removing his Birettum, placing it on his other side. As he straightens up Harry takes the string from his hair and runs a hand through it, fingernails scraping light enough to make him shiver. 

"It's getting so long," he says. Louis' stomach clenches. He wants to say, _it's for you_ but he knows he doesn't have to. 

Harry takes his time with the rest, slowly unwinding the Stole and Maniple, unknotting the Cincture with nimble fingers, before guiding Louis out of his Alb and uncovering his shoulders from the weight of the Amice, all the while standing on the step below Louis, broad and naked and waiting. When the last vestment is folded at their feet, Harry pauses and looks up to meet Louis' eye. 

"May I?" He's asks, hands hovering near the button of Louis' trousers. 

Not trusting himself to speak, Louis nods, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder to steady himself. The bulge of his cock is pressing against the zipper, and he lets out a slow breath when Harry opens his trousers and pulls his cock out. He doesn't know when he started getting hard, or if he's been hard since he woke up this morning. 

Harry looks up at him, the soft adoration clear on his face. 

The scars on Louis' stomach itch, pressing against his starched button up still partially tucked into his slacks, like they've been waiting for this moment. He presses one palm over them, letting a finger slip between two buttons to rest on the jagged skin, willing the want in his belly to ease. 

Harry looks at him like he can see it all, every piece of scar tissue raised in his true name, the hunger and guilt in his expression warring. He reaches over and covers Louis' hand with his own, rubbing back and forth over the scars, harder and softer than Louis can bear.

"Let me see you," he begs, his shaking hand so much bigger than Louis'. 

Louis untucks his shirt, unbuttoning it with clumsy fingers, and he can feel Harry's sigh against his stomach when it's finally uncovered. It feels like a fresh cut. With a single digit, Harry traces the jagged lines. The burn is cold, making Louis' stomach muscles jump.

"You're the holiest thing I've ever seen," he says, not looking up. It makes Louis want to scream and cry and fall to Harry's feet, makes him terrified to turn around and see the face of The Lord hung in sorrow at the blasphemy of His child. Harry must sense his unease because he stops his examination abruptly and takes a small step back. Louis, without pause, takes another step down the dais, keeping them close. He hates himself for it. 

"Lord, open my lips. And my mouth will proclaim your praise."*** Harry clasps his hands in front of his soft dick, shoulders loose while his right index finger traces the cross tattoo on his left hand, almost absentmindedly. He doesn't say anything more, and when he drops to his knees his jaw opens automatically, as if The Lord has heard his plea. 

Brushing his hair over one shoulder, Louis guides his cock into Harry's waiting mouth, feels the soggy edges of the Eucharist pressed onto Harry's tongue, distractedly wondering if the sigil has created an indentation against it from how heavy and hard his cock is weighing it down. He wonders if the Lamb burns as it melts, if Harry even notices. He pulls out and thrusts back in, hard, just to see where Harry's cracks are, if he'll show them. Harry moans, a trail of spit leaking from the sides of his mouth, and Louis doesn't think before swiping at the shiny saliva, gathering a bit on his thumb and pressing it back into Harry's mouth alongside his cock, stretching his lips so wide he looks momentarily deranged. He's not as careful as he wants to be, pressing his hard length deeper and deeper with each thrust, thumbs resting just under Harry's jaw. 

He lets Harry adjust just briefly before changing the angle, feels the scrape of Harry's teeth before he recovers, a flare of pain alongside the white hot pleasure. 

Harry pulls back when the cracks in his lips start to bleed, beading up and dripping down the sides of his mouth mixed with his spit. He's talking before Louis can stop the forward thrust of his hips. 

"I wanted to show the world what I was made to do. You understand that, don't you?" His voice is as raw and lost as the first time Louis ever heard him speak, and it scares him. "It's like-- you squeeze the trigger, you wouldn't pull it, so it's a loving caress. You squeeze it after taking such careful aim, and it creates holes of focused, burning flint. It's a lot like this love you preach about. I was only showing my love, Louis." He sounds desperate. He always sounds so desperate when he's on his knees. 

Louis takes a hold of his cock at the base and rubs the head over Harry's lips, lets it sit on his waiting tongue for a moment while they both focus on controlling their breathing. The Eucharist is mostly gone now, leaving behind a white film on Harry's tongue. 

"I understand, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing his dick in again, watching Harry open his throat and take it, eyes wide. "The harvest is plenty but the laborers are few." He grunts the last part, pushing his thumbs into the dimples on Harry's face and forcing his head up further, allowing Louis to fuck in swiftly, hips a smooth motion back and forth. He can feel Harry swallowing around the crown, loves how it always makes him gag for a moment before he can control the flutter of his throat, moaning so the vibrations tickle the head and make Louis lose his rhythm. 

Harry can be patient with him, has spent days kissing from the scars on Louis' stomach down to his balls, but today he is nothing but eager, though his hands stay folded in front of his soft cock. His arousal is a different kind of hunger.

Harry growls then, lets Louis' dick drop from his mouth to bob in the cool air before he kisses the head, tongue pressing firmly against the slit and swiping up over and over until Louis begins to shake. He looks up at Louis, humming at Louis' hands in his hair.

"Shan't let the seed spill," he says, grin mischievous. His eyes are wet. Louis lets out a stuttering surprise of a laugh, struck by how young he looks, young and dirty and beautiful, and he leans down to kiss Harry on the top of the head before coming, jerky and unexpectedly, all over Harry's face.

It's hard to remain standing without feeling in his legs so Louis sits on the step, his cock slowly softening. Harry's at eye level with him, and he watches Louis' face carefully as he swipes his fingers over his cheeks and brows, brings them to his mouth to lick clean, three at a time so that his lips have to stretch to fit them all. Louis shudders at the slick sound. Harry laughs, and it raises the hair on Louis' neck.

 

__________

 

They never finish Holy Mass.

Louis waits until Harry has finished his pleasure, lips smacking, before he tucks his cock back into his trousers. He helps Harry up from his knees, wincing at the creaking they make, and turns them around so that Harry's back is to the altar and he is sitting on the top step. Harry's skin looks bruised where Louis' touched him, and Louis feels sick at the kick of pleasure it gives him.

The bowl of water is still warm when he picks it up off the cart. He places it on the ground at Harry's feet, kneeling beside it, the cloth purificator over his left forearm, the small stain of precious blood a dull red by now. He spits in the water, mixing his saliva in with the chism, creating a mark all his own. 

Carefully, Louis purifies his hands and pulls his hair back over his shoulder, leaning over so that it just brushes the edge of the bowl. With the care he would show to his baby sisters he cups Harry's ankles and brings his feet to rest in the warm water. Harry hisses at the contact, the cracks in his feet oozing a dark black mist that makes the water bubble until it dissipates. Louis takes one foot into his palm and uses his hair to wipe at the grime, picking out chunks of glass and metal as gently as possible. His hair grows heavy with mud and blood but he continues the slow process with the other foot until the water runs clear and Louis' back bows from the weight. 

He pushes his hair back behind his shoulders in a thin sheet, the slime of it making his hands slippery and the weight making his shoulders ache. He blesses himself with the leftover water, dampening his forehead and chest and letting the it darken his shoulders. Taking the purificator from his forearm he wipes Harry's feet dry and places them on the cool marble. He looks up, up at Harry's adoring face, his lips swollen and eyes still wet, like Louis' kindness is too much to bear. For a moment neither of them breathe and Louis understands why Harry is always so eager to fall to his knees. He smiles, soft and steady, allowing himself another moment of weakness to bask in the glory of Harry's gaze, outlined in front of the crucifix, as bloody and holy as The Lord. He doesn't know what makes him do it, but he leans down, feels the full weight of all that they've done pressing him to the earth, and kisses Harry's feet.

They were both doomed, but they were beautiful.

 

__________

 

When Harry steps over the threshold into the twilight of the early evening, his clean feet shining like a pure spark off flint, he looks back over his shoulder and Louis almost doesn't recognize him. The sun is setting behind him so that his hair looks like its on fire, a relic of his love, and Louis can hardly see his face, no whites in his eyes to cling to. Louis is still kneeling in front of the altar, the neatly folded robes next to him and the wreckage of their sins dripping down his body. Harry always looks back, and Louis hates him for it. 

 

__________

**Author's Note:**

> * (Ps 69/70 v.2)  
> ** the prayer of St. Ambrose can be found in its entirety [here](http://www.ewtn.com/Devotionals/prayer_before_mass.htm)  
> *** (Ps 50/51 v.17)
> 
> i took awful liberties with the myths of Raziel and Sodom & Gomorrah but the Mass is as accurate as can be remembered from years of catechism. find me on [tumblr](http://www.gentlehousing.tumblr.com) if you like.
> 
> thanks for reading. sorry mom.


End file.
